


cinnamon rolls for the soul

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [99]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Post-PRU, food as symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: snippets of Newt's life, post possession





	cinnamon rolls for the soul

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "I hope this is something you are willing to do! I found it on your masterlist post! I took a bunch of free condoms from health services just because I could and they all fell out of my bag at once and now you’re staring at me weirdly."

He only remembers it in bits and pieces—the before, that is; flowers and grass and sun and—and...fun. White walls and hysteria tend to be the most predominant memories.

Hermann comes to see him, sometimes; it might be regular, but honestly, Newt doesn't have a fuck. Give a fuck? Fucking know...he sighs, eyes cracking open. "I can hear you breathing," he says flatly.

Hermann—or, the blurry outline of him, because they never fucking let him wear glasses and didn't want to bother with LASIK, those assholes, anyway—pauses. "I brought you something," he says, sitting across from Newt, and slides a brown paper bag across the table.

Newt raises a brow. "What, they let you bring something in?"

"Just open it," Hermann snaps—not angry; exasperated, more.

Newt does.

It takes a moment for him to understand what it is, the scent befuddling him for longer than he'd care to admit. "I..." he stops, throat suddenly tight. "Thank you," he says, quietly, and picks it up, the cream cheese frosting getting his fingers sticky; takes a bite, relishing the burst of flavour.

Hermann watches him for a few moments with a wistful expression. "I wasn't sure if you'd appreciate it," he says, eventually, fidgeting with the head of his cane. "It's been...a long, long time."

_Fuck,_ Newt thinks. "Yeah," he says, "it has. I still like cinnamon rolls, though." He wriggles his empty, sticky fingers, and licks one of them to try and savour every last bit. "Thanks, Herms."

"It's...my pleasure," Hermann says slowly, and gives a small, weak smile; genuine. Newt's own lips twist a bit—not a smile, not yet, but..._something._

* * *

It's...slow.

That's the worst part, he thinks—you take your meds and go to therapy and shit, but—still, he flinches at loud noises; expects it all to—_end,_ for them to pull the rug from beneath his feet with a laugh—Newt, so _naïve,_ as usual; shouldn't he know better?

It's not fun.

"You could leave," Newt tells him, one of the days when things are particularly bad; red letters inked on every wall of his mind, the steady drone of a chainsaw providing wnitenoise in his head.

"Leave?" Hermann asks—upset? Puzzled.

Newt makes a skittering motion with his hand, to tired to lift himself up. "Yeah—go, leave me; do something with your life."

Hermann looks at him for a long while. Finally, he says, "I _am._"

"No you're not."

"Oh?" the mathematician raises a brow. "_Do_ explain."

"You could do whatever," Newt points out bluntly. "You could be the rockstar you deserve instead of sitting around waiting for me to catch up. Do what you want, you know."

Hermann stills; sits down next to him. "What exactly makes you think I'm not doing this because I want?"

Newt laughs. "Come on—_this?_ You don't want this, Herms."

"No," Hermann agrees, "I want to be here with you and help you."

And that's the end of the conversation, really—but Newt thinks about it late at night as he lays in bed; settled into the bed by Hermann, dosing already, he wonders if this is content.

It's.

_Good._

* * *

"Teaching?" Hermann asks incredulously when Newt first proposes it.

Newt nods. "Yeah," he says, "high-school." Rubs the marks on his wrists; nervousness. Is it a..._wrong_ suggestion? Did he—

"—just a bit..._odd,_" Hermann's saying, and Newt snaps back to focus. "Though I'm sure you'll be wonderful at it," Hermann continues, and reaches out to grasp Newt's hand. "You always did have a way with children."

"They're not—_children,_" Newt protests; the only thing he can say around the blockage in his throat. "But...yeah. High-school."

"AP?" Hermann asks.

"Nah," Newt says, "I'm thinking about petitioning one of the high-schools to allow me to teach an elective course or two on kaiju biology."

Hermann smiles. "I'm sure you'll do great," he says.

"Well, yeah," Newt says, more confidently than he feels, the grin a bit weak. "I'm Newt fucking Geiszler, dude, I'm a rock-star."

* * *

That's how it starts.

K-bio, as his students refer to it as, is really fun to teach.

It's great! Really!

It leads to Newt, a teacher, getting caught by a freshman sneaking into the health services building, which, like, would be fine, but—well.

It's slightly embarrassing when said student drags him around the corner and smack into Hermann.

"_Newton?_" Hermann gapes. "What on _earth—?_"

"It's for science!" Newt exclaims.

"They're _condoms!_" the freshman pipes up gleefully.

"_Science!_" Newt repeats. "Look, dude, I needed a—"

Hermann holds up his hand; shakes his head. "Please, for the love of all things holy," he says, "Newton—shut _up._"

Newt shuts up.

(It _was_ for science though—honest!)

* * *

During spring break, Hermann bakes.

"Whatcha makin'?" Newt asks, through a yawn, blinking blearily in the morning sun.

Hermann, sitting at the table with a bowl of dough and a rolling-pin, hums. "Cinnamon-rolls," he said, "I felt it an apt celebratory food for making it through to second semester. Can you get the butter out for me and melt it a bit?"

"Sure," says Newt, and opens the fridge; registers the rest of Hermann's words; smiles.

"You're the best," he says, after the rolls are in the oven, and Hermann smiles at him.

"I'm proud of us," Hermann says, and this time, when Newt tries to smile, it's more—not there, yet, quite, but he's _trying._

It's..._good._

The cinnamon rolls are good too.

"Dude," he says, "how the hell did you get this good?"

"Practice," Hermann says, primly, which, fuck, now Newt's imagining little-bitty Hermann with flour in his hair..._adorable._

"I burn water," he says.

Hermann laughs. "I'd say that's impossible, but, well," he grins, "it _is_ you we're talking about."

"Shut up and pass me the cream cheese frosting," Newt demands, cheeks hot. The brown sugar is sticky on his fingers; the sun streaming through the window and the scent of freshly mowed grass following it; outside, birds chirp intermittently as they eat, and Newt wonders what he'd've said about it before.

He'd have said it was impossible, probably; to be content, and he'd be wrong.

Life's alright. Not perfect, but that's just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [harrowwharks](https://harrowwharks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
